Originally posted on 12/25/12

He nuzzled his gray snout into the inner curve of my knee. Then he scooted his whole body a little bit tighter against me and let out a long, deep sigh.

I ran my hand from his oversized, perfectly shaped chocolate brown head down his warm, rounded body to the base of his tail. His big front paw contracted, not unlike the toe curl I experience when being well kissed.

My mind drifted back to when this ritual began. He’d just come home with us, a puppy alone for the first time, separated from his siblings — his pack — and his mother.

We quickly developed a routine: he’d eat his food fast and furious, in true Lab fashion. I watched him while  sitting cross legged on the floor. 

Dylan would crawl in my lap after he ate, then I would pet him to sleep.

When he was finished he’d crawl into my lap, curl up, and I’d pet him to sleep.

The phone could ring, my legs might stiffen up, or I’d have to pee, but I never moved until he woke up.

It was the nicest part of my day. Like the magic I imagine a first time mother must feel with her newborn asleep in her arms.

But as he grew, our little ritual gradually dwindled. He no longer fit into my lap, and he preferred the couch where he could stretch out. I had no idea how much I missed it until one Christmas day.

It was the first year I’d spent the holidays alone with my Jewish husband — a man for whom Christmas embodied all of the discomfort he felt growing up in the southern Bible belt, one of a handfull of Jewish kids in a private, Christian school.

Needless to say, he wasn’t excited to celebrate the holiday.

I, on the other hand, had grown up a heathen. I loved Christmas for the thrill of the gift exchange, shiny ornaments, glittering lights, and the occasional theatre of midnight mass. It was my favorite holiday, and I eagerly looked forward to it each year. 

But try as I might I couldn’t convince my husband that my Christmas was fa la la, tinsel, and presents — not at all religious.

Further complicating the issue was the fact that his family didn’t really exchange gifts, whereas mine specialized in gift giving of Olympic proportions, the kind that could drive you to distraction in the quest for the perfect item, along the way buying everything under the sun. It was over the top and in need of adjustment to be sure.

So we compromised. 

Each December we’d agree to various combinations of Hanukah and Christmas, all of which worked to a degree, but none of which completely satisfied either of us. Sometimes we’d have a menorah, sometimes a tree, sometimes both.

One year we’d skip Christmas altogether to visit his extended family in some exotic locale, and the next we’d do stockings and Santa Claus with my family in the Midwest. One year we opted out and attended a professional basketball game on Christmas day. 

When Dylan finally crawled into my lap after several years, he felt like a puppy, not a 70 round dog.

Finally, we decided to just stay at home together with our pets.

So there we were on Christmas day, not really doing Christmas, as per this year’s compromise. I was trying to be loyal to our agreement and keep a stiff upper lip as we watched TV – my husband on the couch, me sitting cross legged on the floor – but truth be told, I was feeling a little sorry for myself, a bit deprived.

Just then our 70 pound Chocolate Lab ambled over. He looked at me quizzically, stepped one foot onto my crossed legs and pulled it off again.

A small spark ignited in me – he was trying to get into my lap!

This hadn’t happened in years! Excited and hopeful, I encouraged him to try again, patting my lap and giving the command, “lie down.”

He’d step on gingerly, turn his body this way and that, look puzzled, quickly step off, and then at my urging, try it all over again.

Finally, he stopped and looked at me reproachfully — my lap was clearly too small. We were both frustrated, but I was unwilling to give up.

In a flash of inspiration, I asked my husband to throw me a blanket. I made a loose circle of my legs on the floor and covered them with the blanket. I hoped  my lap would look bigger, more inviting.

And it worked! To my extreme delight my big beautiful Lab walked onto the blanket, circled once, and settled down, snuggling in and bumping up against the circumference of my legs.

With a deep, satisfied sigh he closed his eyes and relaxed completely. And with tears in my eyes, grinning from ear to ear, so did I.

Merry Christmas to me – best present ever!

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Written by Randy Hale. Originally posted in December 2013.

Our Dog Stops Eating the Day Before Thanksgiving

The day before Thanksgiving I wake up late. Deliciously late. I have nothing to do today. I’m on vacation.

We arrived on Orcas Island the day before, in time to unpack the car and take the dogs for a hike before dark. We did the usual – around the lake, and across the field.

Miguel ran ahead, all business, scouting the trail for us, while Dylan trotted along, dropping his ball at our feet every few yards, elated, grinning, eyes shining, tail wagging, begging us to please just “throw it!”

The lake was icing up so Dylan skipped his usual swim, but he still did his joyful dance, bobbing and weaving, faking and laughing, celebrating having all his favorite things in one place: mom, dad, Miguel, ball, Orcas Island.

Perfect.

Dylan hardly moved on the car ride to the vet.

The next day I get up, get my coffee, and amble in to see Robert in his usual spot with his computer on the couch, Dylan at his side. As I bend down to kiss him good morning the day goes bad.

Really bad.

“There’s something wrong with Dylan,” he says, but it doesn’t register. A joke? Not funny — at all. Then he says, “Dylan didn’t eat.”

My heart stops.

Dylan is a lab. Never in his entire life has he not eaten. Not even after surgery.

Never.

Dylan gives me a feeble wag. His nose is a faucet — big drops hit the floor — his cough is deep and wet. Robert says he hasn’t been off the couch – no morning greeting, no eating, no peeing.

Nothing.

He’s 12 years old. A decent run for a lab, I know. But not nearly long enough for me.

My heart is breaking.

He is my joy, my boy, my baby. I bury my face in his neck and chant our love song, “brown dog, brown dog, brown dog.”

We agree that we need to get him to the vet ASAP. I long for home, not this island vet we’ve seen once in 10 years.

I call. Nothing till 2pm, and they’re worried about him being contagious. I try to keep my voice level as I tell them he lives with another dog who is fine – I don’t think it’s a problem. 2:00 is the soonest. Fine. We’ll be there.

The day is long. We never leave Dylan alone. Miguel gets walked, but he doesn’t eat.

Solidarity? Fear? I don’t know, but I comfort him. I sneak away and cry alone. Robert and I are careful with each other. Afraid we’ll break.

We might.

“Fix Him”

At 1:30 we move toward the car. Miguel comes too, so he won’t worry, alone in the house. As I lock up I glance outside and see Robert, carrying Dylan, limp and docile, cradled in both arms — our 75 pound lab held before him like an offering — down the path to the car, Miguel walking quietly at his side.

I stand frozen, and then, leaving the lights blazing, I slam the door, and race for the car.

At the vet, I run interference to make sure a room is ready to spare Dylan having to be carried to the waiting room and then picked up again to go to an exam room. I don’t know if he’s in pain, but he won’t be if I can help it.

The people are nice. They work hard to contact Seattle for Dylan’s records. The vet enters, smiles kindly at us and greets Dylan with, “Hello, old dog”, as he lifts his chin gently in his hand.

They look into each others eyes and Dylan seems to agree to allow this man to examine him.

His temperature is 104. I foolishly ask and the vet answers that normal dog temperature is 101 – 102.

“We don’t see many at 104,” he says. I ignore the remark, thinking, “Well, you’ve got one now. Fix him.” 

I always go to the snarky side when I’m afraid. And I surely am now.

Medicine for a Brown Dog

He gives Dylan a shot in the hip – big medicine for a brown dog. Dylan barely turns to look. And then pills – antibiotics to fight infection.

Plus some extra yummy, high calorie food, to make him want to eat, or at least to take his pills.

We decide not to do a blood test since the next day was Thanksgiving and the results wouldn’t be in till Friday, and it will  probably only showing elevated white cells due to the fever. And why stick the poor dog anymore?

The vet makes sure to tell us he’s on call tomorrow, and they are open again on Friday. I am simultaneously thankful for the information and terrified that he feels the need to tell us so explicitly.

We were so happy when Dylan began to hang out in the kitchen as his appetite returned.

We reverse our trip, Robert again carrying Dylan. Miguel has waited patiently in the car – not his usual MO, but much appreciated. I pet him.

I don’t know who to comfort first – Dylan, Miguel, Robert, or me.

Home again. Robert gently lifts Dylan back onto his place on the couch. We try to entice him with the smelly good food.

No dice.

We wrap a pill in his favorite – the coveted cheese ball.

Nothing. His jaws remain firmly clamped shut.

Robert finally forces his mouth open and we toss the cheese pill deep into his throat, massaging till it goes down, holding his mouth closed, all the while feeling mean and torturous.

He swallows.

We sigh with relief.

The ordeal over, we pet him and cover him with kisses. He succumbs, but I can tell he just wants to sleep. I reluctantly slink away and turn to mush.

Mercifully, we have a house guest who is understanding and supportive. It’s a relief to focus on someone else for a while. I drink red wine with dinner and relax a bit.

Robert puts a picture of Dylan on Facebook with a notation saying, “ I have a sick, old dog. Please keep him in your thoughts.”

And people do.

The response is enormous – hundreds of “likes” and comments wishing Dylan good health, love, long life, and prayers come through the internet. And though I am a face to face kind of person, reading them makes me feel better.

I am touched beyond belief.

Thanksgiving Miracle!

Robert sleeps on the couch downstairs so in case Dylan needs us he’s right there. I worry upstairs that he won’t wake up, but Miguel, sleeping in his bed on the floor next to me, wakes up 3 times and goes downstairs – and each time I follow.

Twice Robert is awake and with Dylan. Once he’s snoring as I pass silently and snuggle Dylan myself. Miguel and I go back upstairs where I cry into my pillow.

In the morning — a Thanksgiving miracle: Dylan stumbles outside on shaky legs, but under his own power. He eats, slower than usual, but still, he eats!

He spends the day on the couch, but his cough is less labored and his nose has stopped running. And he improves almost hourly and I fawn all over him and talk about him incessantly.

He also began to hang out in the kitchen and eat carrots,  one of his favorite treats:

That night I sleep downstairs on the couch and only wake up twice to pet my boy as he sleepily acknowledges me.

We return to Seattle and immediately see our own vet who knows Dylan well. By now Dylan is walking on his own, eating voraciously again, but still coughing with any activity.

They ask me to wait about an hour while he has x-rays and blood drawn. I go for coffee nearby, walk around a bit, but ultimately end up sitting in the vet’s office.

I feel better there.

Preliminary results are cause for celebration: uncomplicated pneumonia, treatable with antibiotics. The vet, who has an old brown lab himself, and who once put my favorite cat to sleep, hugs me, beaming as he delivers the news.

Back in the car, I hug Dylan and give him a treat. I feel like I’ve just gotten a reprieve.

And I give thanks.

Randy Hale lives in Seattle with her husband, two dogs, and two cats. She has a rich and varied resume that includes hotels, computers, oncology social work, merchandising, sales, acting, and writing.

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My wife Randy remembered she wrote a few years ago after watching me give a pill to our dog Miguel recently.

Miguel and I have a tense, wary, loving relationship.

I’m waiting for the right dog to take his butter pill. Not bitter pill. Butter Pill. It’s medicine in butter, and we don’t want Dylan to take it. Only Miguel, because only Miguel has giardia. Ugh.  

Dylan, our Chocolate Lab, will eat anything. Miguel, our formerly starving Mexican stray, will not. He’s picky at best, skipping meals, often for days at a time. Recently, with his giardia, he’s been eating, but he’s also been pooping rivers of diarrhea.

But this may be too much information.  

The point is he’s a pain to pill. Just now, instead of eating his butter pill, he left it with Dylan standing there salivating, ready to pounce. Just abandoned it and went upstairs to see Robert. I had to move quickly to rescue it and fend Dylan off while I waited for Robert to come downstairs to pill Miguel for real.  

Robert is Miguel’s personal favorite and the only person he will allow to shove a pill down his throat.

Robert’s method is to anchor him firmly under his armpit, pry his mouth open with one hand, and shove the butter pill down his throat with the other. Then clamp his mouth shut, massage his throat, and croon, “Good boy, swallow that…good boy!” And release! Like roping a calf, it takes a cowboy to do it.  

In this case that cowboy is Robert, Miguel’s hero, alpha dog, personal favorite. His worship of Robert is such that I dread the day when he needs pilling and Robert is unavailable. I envision a blood bath, or at least a Mexican standoff.

Or maybe, finally, grudgingly, he’ll eat the proffered “treat.” He sometimes deigns to eat treats I offer him, but never out of my hand. That honor is reserved for Cowboy Bob.  

Miguel and I have a tense, wary, loving relationship. If I’m the only game in town – say, when Robert has been gone for three days and Miguel has spent those days in the chair at the window, pining, anxiously awaiting his man’s return, when there are still no signs that his beloved will be back soon, and I appear to be his only option – then and only then, will he take food from me, or push his forehead coyly into the crook of my leg to be petted, or prance a bit when I return home after a brief absence.

I’m on the second string, I know, but it still feels good. Like an honor – a coveted award bestowed upon me by the skinny, tailless immigrant who has taken up residence in my home and in my heart.  

Miguel on duty, keeping us safe.

We are friends most of the time, Miguel and I. We’re happy to be together, we have each other’s backs. I walk him, treat him, brush him, and gently tell him “off” when he stands on the chair at the front window barking wildly at the passing parade of unsuspecting dogs, cars, and people. He keeps me safe from the postman and the pizza delivery guy, and he herds me.  

He watches and cajoles and worries when I’m separated from the pack. His job, as he sees it, is to keep us all together. He does this by indicating where I should go with a slight prancing run in the desired direction, then a full stop, checking to see if I’m coming, before continuing on toward the goal, usually Robert.  

The day we met Miguel in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico.

If I don’t follow, he’ll return to where I am and give me a meaningful look. Do not underestimate the meaningful Miguel look. It is intense. A silent reprimand that penetrates me to the core. Dark orbs rimmed in black focus high beams onto my soul, impossible to ignore. “Follow me,” it commands, “Come on!” Should I still fail to move in his chosen direction, his look morphs into disdain. “You missed it — missed your chance,” it says.  

Disgusted, he casts a last, brief, reproachful eye upon me, and stalks off without so much as a backward glance. Unmistakable full body communication from forty skinny pounds of haughty canine without even a tail to wag to soften the blow.

I smile, shake my head, and offer up a silent thank you that Robert isn’t a big traveller, preferring to be at home with his dogs. Chances are I won’t need to pill Miguel anytime soon, but the possibility still looms. Life is unpredictable.  

A moment later, I decide to wander downstairs to join my pack after all. Might as well rack up the points with Miguel while I can.

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Bananas are Part of Dylan’s Morning Routine

Tennis ball in mouth = Happy Labrador Retriever. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

I can’t see a banana without crying. This wasn’t always the case. I used to love them. I made sure we had plenty of ripe ones at all times. I’d even go to the store at night, if I noticed we had none for the morning. Sure, I enjoyed them on cereal, on yogurt, in smoothies. But the real appeal of bananas for me lay with Dylan, our Chocolate Labrador Retriever.

Touch a banana in the kitchen and Dylan would instantly appear at your feet, hyper aware, salivating, sitting obediently with military- like posture, eyes glued to you, the tip of his tail wagging in anticipation of his treat. This was our morning ritual. Every day I would share a banana with Dylan. We both loved it. We both looked forward to it.

I would give him exactly 4 slices, feeding them to him one at a time, intermittently spaced between slicing the rest of it into my cereal or whatever concoction I had that day. I fed them to him flat handed, the way you feed a horse, so as not to have my fingers bitten off. That’s how excited he was about his banana.

At the 4^th slice, I’d hold it out and make eye contact saying, “last one”, and he knew exactly what I meant. He’d snap it up and then look at me hopefully, with that total optimism unique to dogs. I’d open both palms and show him my empty hands, whereupon he’d lick my hands, then his chops, and leave, being sure to check the floor for scraps on his way.

That was our coveted daily routine. One of his pet sitters once suggested to me that he had taught Dylan to love bananas. I just smiled. Let him think what he wanted. Dylan and I knew better.

As Dylan got older, his legs got weaker, but his banana fetish remained strong. Even when he could no longer make it up from his couch in the basement to join me in the kitchen, he knew when a banana was being peeled. And he wanted it.

So I started giving him room service. I’d save 4 slices and bring them to him on his couch amid wild wagging and salivating. Same ritual, different location, both of us still thoroughly enjoying it.

But it was a telltale sign of things to come.

Dogs Don’t Live Long Enough

For almost 13 years life was wonderful with Dylan. And then, late in his 12^th year he contracted aspiration pneumonia three times. The final time proved too much for his body. He simply wore out.

Dylan refused to eat or drink for several days during his 3rd bout of aspiration pneumonia. I took this picture the day he was euthanized. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

At the end, he spent days on oxygen at the ER vet, being hydrated, and plied with different antibiotics – none of which, as it turned out, worked for him – before we brought him home.

Alas, my beautiful Chocolate Lab, whose fondest pastime was eating – even before chasing the ball and swimming – wouldn’t eat a thing for days. We tried wooing him with bananas, apples, and stinky dog treats, cooked him salmon, chicken, and steak. But nothing worked. He simply couldn’t do it. He’d sniff the latest offering and then turn his head to the side, resting his chin on a paw or a nearby cushion. It broke my heart.

But that’s how it is with dogs. They steal your heart utterly and completely through tiny, simple acts – the love of a banana, the dive for a ball, the excited wag when you come home. You learn to appreciate and live for each of these moments, and even though sometime in midlife they become routine, maybe a bit mundane, perhaps even a chore at times — they still make you smile. And you are lulled into a false sense of security that this relationship will last forever – that this dog will be with you always, that it’s a lifetime bond between you.

And then, one day, at the market, you glimpse the bananas neatly lined up and tiered in triplets in the produce section, and you burst into tears. Right there in Safeway you are reduced to mush. And you have to turn away, maybe even abandon your cart, leave the store, and go sit in your car to compose yourself. Because at that moment you realize you have lost the love of your life.

“We Have to Let Him Go Sometime”

We tried. God knows we tried. If love could save a life Dylan would surely be alive today. But when it got down to it he couldn’t make it. And he tried very hard – for our sakes. Especially for Robert, I think. Dylan knew I would let him go more easily. Having sat through death before with both parents and my favorite cat, I expected it.  But even that didn’t make it any easier, just less surprising.

Dylan loved Canon Beach, OR. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

So when Dylan began to really, truly fail I found the courage to softly say, “we have to let him go sometime.”
And Robert agreed almost immediately. No matter how hard it was, neither of us was willing to let our precious dog suffer.

The next morning, after Robert had taken Dylan outside two or three times the night before, carrying him to “find his spot”, while diarrhea streamed down his shirt and pants, we decided. We knew that, loud and clear, Dylan was asking to be released, let go. He was asking us to do what he knew we were capable of doing – lay him to rest.

His body was depleted. He hadn’t eaten or drank in days, he’d stopped wagging almost completely, and he’d started dragging himself into the laundry room to hide out, turning his beautiful face away when I went to kiss him.

That morning Robert suggested tomorrow could be the day. But an hour later we knew it would be today, maybe this evening after his Reiki massage and acupuncture.

And then we decided on 2:30 PM.

We Make “The Call”

Robert gets credit for making the call – what a brave and selfless thing to do. I doubt I could have done it. I even craved consensus from his masseuse Jennifer Streit and acupuncturist Dr. Richard Panzer, both of whom agreed that it was best to help him go before he felt real pain or, at least in my mind, any more shame or humiliation.

When the doctor arrived Dylan had moved from the couch to the big, puffy dog bed after finally getting the message across to us. “Out?” we asked, and he’d hunker down on the couch refusing to be moved. But he kept glancing around until I finally asked, “want to get into your bed?”

Then he got there almost airborne, making the short distance from the couch to the bed on the floor, with our help. Lame dog flying.

I had to straighten out his wrist after he landed, but his eyes closed and he dug right in, relaxed, and fell deeply asleep almost immediately.

It’s Time

Dylan flies free. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

Awhile later Dr. Sarah Render Hopkins from Compassion 4 Paws arrived and his tail wagged for the first time in days as he looked up at her. Not just a twitchy wag, a full on happy to see you, glad you’re here wag.

It brought me to tears.

Then he closed his eyes and I buried my face in his neck, just behind his velvet ears, and took long nose hits, committing him to memory.

She sedated him and his relaxation deepened, and my heart sang as he melted further into his cushy bed, finally at ease after days of agitation. Then, after a small fiasco to find a good vein – hard to do after all his IV’s, poor guy – she gave the lethal injection and he was gone.

And for me, at that moment, the magic left the room. Things were duller as the bright light that was Dylan was extinguished.

I will, of course, carry on and love other pets, even other dogs.

But this one, this special one, will always tether my heart. He’s the one that caused me to finally stop eating bananas after binging on them in his honor, tears streaming down my face. I created an altar to him with a tennis ball, a “wet dog” candle, a picture of him, and a banana. I now see sunsets as signs from him that he’s doing well — running, swimming, happy. I bought red roses because once I see that their color is called “freedom” I can’t do otherwise. 

This is a clear sign that he is free at last from his worn out, used up old body. That once again he runs strong and glad. And I know in my heart that that’s the gift we gave him when we summoned all our courage and called the vet that sad, sad October day.

Life will never be the same. But it will always be better for having had Dylan in my arms and in my heart.

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“Alex: The Double-Rescue Dog”, by Geri Gale, is the heartfelt story of a small dog named Alex. A less than perfect canine specimen, he more than makes up for his physical flaws with his loving heart and endearing personality.

Alex’s life gets off to a bumpy start. He is wrenched from his mother and siblings at an early age, he experiences being loved briefly, but he’s ultimately abandoned and forced to survive on his own.

Thankfully, he is rescued by the author and her partner. With them he finds his happily ever after in his forever home where he discovers that he, too, can be a rescuer.

Writing in Alex’s voice, Geri Gale makes complicated topics like love, loss, marriage, and cancer understandable and endurable when seen from the genuine, guileless point of view of a dog.

A page turner, and at times a nail biter, this story is heartwarming and true. Written during Gale’s real life cancer treatment, much of it takes place in Seattle.

Portions of the proceeds from the sale of this book will go to PAWS, and Swedish Cancer Institute.

“Alex: The Double-Rescue Dog” is a little gem – beautiful to look at, with luminous illustrations by Pamela Farrington, and a great read on many levels, with a valuable message for children, adults, and dog lovers of all ages.

“Alex” will win a permanent spot in your heart and on your bookshelf.

Click here to purchase “Alex: The Double-Rescue Dog” on Amazon.com.

To learn more about author Geri Gale go to www.gerigale.com.

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